Alan Rickman

I watch you twitch in your dying bed and wonder if the sole of my left boot, pressed hard, hard… against the folds of your neck, would help the world (and me) breathe a little easier. But strangulation would take you from your children much too quickly. I will free you not from the scorn oozing out of their eyes, from the sight of the burdens you’ve filled their hearts with.

January weeps snow salt on Alan Rickman’s frozen smile. “Always”, she says, and clutches Snape tighter, his blood tattooing your greedy deed to her chest. February doesn’t cry; not with Leonard Nimoy no longer breathing in her arms. “I shan’t show any emotion, Mr. Spock”, she tells him, turning her rage into indifference that stinks of your hand. November kneels in a corner, face to the wall and back to you. His eyes are shut, and his right foot is in his mouth. Shame shrouds him, the thought of post-truth weights bigly on his spirit. He mumbles, “Yes, we can” and “I feel the Bern”, but doesn’t know what any of it means.

The rest of your brood sits with Death, Misery and Loss, all their hurting quiet, quiet, quiet… except, December’s—she has been possessed by the rebel fury of Princess Leia. Yes, she is the one kicking your skull, and shouting, “You, bastard!” No, she is not the one flipping you off, that’s The Force in Carrie Fisher… and in most of the feeling world.